


Mass Hysteria

by remembertowrite



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alex is a grad student, Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Romance, Strand is a thirsty mofo, what do you know I'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remembertowrite/pseuds/remembertowrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex is a grad student in journalism at U. Washington. Dr. Strand is a visiting professor.</p><p>Or: The trash professor/student Stragan AU that nobody wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mass Hysteria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wonderful_Jinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/gifts).



> Happy birthday Jinx :)

“From the famed outbreak of ‘meowing nuns’ at a French convent in the Middle Ages to the shared conversion disorder of a dozen young women at a Virginia high school in 2007, mass hysteria has always been something that takes root in the collective public psyche. These shared psychological afflictions spread like a pandemic as news media extend the reach of such shared psychoses.

“Pulling from both Professor Davidson’s research into how social networks accelerate the proliferation of information, as well as my own forays into the more, ah, _lunatic_ delusions of organized groups”—here the portion of the class familiar with the well-known Dr. Strand’s work offered a murmured chuckle—“we hope to spend the next four weeks laying a solid foundation knowledge about the dissemination of information, and your ethical responsibilities as journalists to temper the more hysterical facets of that information spread. It is your duty as journalists to report only those facts which will make for a more informed public, and disregard the accounts of those who would spread misinformation about reality.”

The professor at the front stopped speaking, halting his leisurely stroll across the front of the classroom, a large room shaped like an amphitheater to accommodate the nearly 30 graduate U. Washington journalism students in Alex’s year. The other professor—Davidson, the sociologist who’d also spent a decade as a newspaper reporter in Oregon—sat calmly at the desk at the front, smiling weakly at his colleague.

Alex had heard interesting stories about these two—Prof. Davidson taught a more general ethics survey class she’d have to take next semester—but Dr. Strand was someone who came in only once a year from Chicago to teach the month-long course on information spread in mass media. Nic, a coworker she’d met through her internship at the local NPR station, had regaled her with tales of the cocky academic who’d apparently caused more than one deeply religious student to drop out of the course.

She’d done some research in her spare time, a quick Google search and a brief scan of his Twitter feed. She’d come across a pretentious-looking publicity photo that featured her new professor covering the bottom half of his face very blatantly with Heidigger’s _On Time and Being_. It’d been a black and white photo, something she’d assumed was outdated by at least 15 years, because there was no way a 40-something doctorate degree holder looked that young.

Her carefully nurtured journalistic acumen had failed her on that one, though. He looked even prettier in person, in that old-fashioned tweed-blazer-with-elbow-patches, scotch-drinking-with-the-boys-club sort of way.

“Thanks, folks. We’ll see you Wednesday,” Professor Davidson offered, and the tell-tale creaking of chairs and shuffle of notebooks into bookbags roused Alex out of her internal musings. Her small moleskin lay open on the table in front on her, faint smudges of snarky notes tucked into the margins around the quote-unquote “facts” she’d transcribed during the initial lecture.

Unfazed, she raised her hand and called down to her teachers (she was being graded, but so what? What was the point of being a journalist if not to ask questions?).

“Dr. Strand,” she said, but it came out as a half-shout, echoing over the shuffling of her fellow students.

Strand stood, slinging his messenger bag across his shoulder, and pressed his knuckle onto the desk at the front of the classroom.

“Yes, Miss—?”

“Reagan,” Alex offered, meeting him in the eyes across the length of the room. Some of the students next to her paused to observe the interaction.

“You mentioned it’s a journalistic ethical duty to report only ‘certain facts,’ but wouldn’t that just be a kind of censorship? Isn’t getting the truth out the most important thing, regardless of the consequences?”

The student to Alex’s right raised his eyebrow at Alex. She ignored him.

Strand seemed to consider her, narrowing his eyes. He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“There is a difference between the high-caliber journalism you’re referencing and the tabloid proliferation of psychosomatic, sometimes down-right fantastical, delusions.”

Alex frowned, gathering her things awkwardly into her arms.

“But if something’s affecting the public you serve, it’s newsworthy. It’s not fair to hide that from your audience.”

She made her way to the aisle and walked down the steps towards Dr. Strand. Several of her fellow students had already left, and Davidson had scurried off to another class. She’d probably be running late, too, now that she thought of it.

But what was the point of being a journalist if not to question the company line, to challenge the status quo?

“A journalist’s responsibility is to their audience,” Alex added, stopping before her new professor. He towered over her, and she wished she hadn’t taken the last step down. She’d been at his height before.

Dr. Strand cocked his head at her.

“Miss… Reagan? Alex Reagan?”

The knot of self-righteous anger in Alex’s gut melted; she nodded dumbly, momentarily stunned. Dr. Strand’s lips twisted into a hint of a smile, and the cerulean blue of his eyes glimmered. He was a _very_ pretty person.

“Ah, you were the reporter on the Moore Theater haunting segment on last week’s Seattle Stories?”

Alex stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. “You listen to NPR?”

“I’m a supporter of the arts,” Dr. Strand responded, wry grin crossing his features. “That was a very… _interesting_ segment.”

He really was very attractive. If, you know, your type was old white dudes who were assholes.

Alex offered Strand her sweetest smile, summoning the bubbly persona that had gotten so many interview subjects to open up to her, the cute naïve reporter with the doe eyes.

“Oh, you’re a fan of hauntings? That’s right, I read somewhere that you’re a ghostbuster!”

Strand’s mouth contracted into a scowl. It felt like order had been reestablished in the world.

“Dr. Strand, I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Thanks for your time!”

She whipped around before he could respond and made her way for the door, trying her best not to drop the disorganized heap of school supplies in her arms. She booked it through the door and down the stairs, praying Strand wouldn’t catch up to her.

What an elitist ass.

She looked forward very much to sinking her teeth into the cocky ~~(pretty)~~ bastard and taking him down a peg.

###

Two and a half weeks weeks into Dr. Strand and Prof. Davidson’s class, Alex had made it a point to show up at Strand’s office hours every Tuesday and Thursday. She would wait patiently in the corner of his visiting professor’s office as other students asked him to clarify something about how conspiracy media had downgraded the collective intelligence of the United States. She would review her notes until she had him all to herself.

In her years as a fact checker at a small-town radio station outside Everett, she’d developed a shorthand that made it easy to transcribe verbatim quotes. Her old producer had advised her to not overly rely on her audio recorder—notetaking was as essential a skill as interviewing.

So Alex had taken to writing down Dr. Strand’s more egregious-sounding statements, cherry-picking the ones that she could best challenge him on. He was, unfortunately, a rather intelligent person. She probably had bitten off more than she could chew by taking on a person with PhDs in psychology and religion, but backing down from a challenge wasn’t really her style.

At last the last student for the day left. Alex felt a thrill pulsing through her veins. Time to knock some sense into the asshole. Nothing quite so gratifying.

Dr. Strand turned towards her and motioned her forward with a wave of his hand.

“Miss Reagan. Again.”

She scowled at him.

“A pleasure, as always,” he offered diplomatically as she took a seat in one of the hard-backed chairs in front of his desk. The desktop lay bare other than Dr. Strand’s messenger bag; a small stack of books sat on the floor. The office walls were bare, evidence of the transient nature of visiting professorhood. Alex wondered what it’d be like when Dr. Strand left after his course ended, but she pushed it out her mind.

She flipped open to her notes from class last Friday, when the discussion had devolved into a rather caustic evaluation of organized religion.

“You were pretty critical of religious-owned media last class, and I just wondered if you’d ever read the Christian Science Monitor’s coverage of global issues,” Alex started.

Strand opened his mouth as if to answer her, so she drew out a copy of one of his older books and thumbed her way through to the author bio.

“You’re a self-avowed atheist, so don’t you think that kind of colors your opinion of religious-owned media?”

She looked up and caught Strand staring down at the book in her hands. She followed his line of vision, and a photo of a much younger-looking Strand glared at her from the page of the book. Strand huffed out what she thought might be a hint of amusement.

“I’m more concerned you found some of my early writing.”

His expression betrayed a hint of embarrassment; at once she felt a little foolish and a little sorry for him.

“It was an interesting read,” she said.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on the desktop, and gifted her a grin. Dots of stubble marred the smooth academic image she’d kept of him in her mind; his glasses sat ever so slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose.

The sound of a growling stomach shouting in protest for food echoed through Strand’s tiny office. Strand sunk into sheepish shyness, something she hadn’t expected from Dr. I Am Right About Everything. She struggled to stifle her giggles. And failed.

Strand exhaled and adjusted his glasses, probably in want of something to mask his struggle to regain his composure. He checked his watch (some fancy brand, surely, since he was well-off; she’d read about the $1 million prize the Strand Institute offered).

“My office hours ended about ten minutes ago, Miss Reagan, and I could use some dinner. Would you mind if we reconvened on Tuesday evening?”

Alex glanced at the clock. It was nearing 8:15 in the evening.

“Yeah, of course.”

She gathered her things into her bookbag and observed as Strand meticulously lined his files into his messenger bag. It was a beaten up leather thing, probably well-loved, by the looks of it.

“Goodnight, Miss Reagan,” he said as she pulled open the office door. She turned back; the fluorescent overhead lights brought out the black circles under his eyes.

He’d been exceedingly patient with her, welcoming her questions and challenges.

“Alex,” she told him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Alex is fine.” She offered him a begrudging smile.

“Goodbye, Alex,” he responded, and refocused his attention to organizing the depths of his apparently enthralling messenger bag.

Alex left, the door snapping shut behind her.

Bastard hadn’t offered his own first name, and had claimed hunger in an attempt to shut her questions down. Next time, she’d keep his butt stuck to his seat until he gave her the time she needed to take him down a peg.

###

On the next Tuesday, she arrived armed with the copy of his book, her notepad, and two containers of pad thai: a chance to see him struggle with chopsticks, she hoped.

Once again, she waited in her corner, the pungent tease of Thai food encouraging Dr. Strand to hurry his other students along. She finally got her chance at 7:30, and she knew she had him when she dropped the containers of noodles drenched in peanut sauce on his desk.

“I hope you like pad thai,” Alex offered in explanation, handing Dr. Strand a pair of chopsticks rolled in a disposable napkin. His fingers brush against hers, the soft skin of a white-collar worker informing her that he wasn’t much for physical labor or heavy lifting. His skin felt nothing like the calloused hands of her father, who’d worked as an auto mechanic for 30 years.

“This wasn’t necessary,” Strand said in that flat tone of his, but he greedily popped off the top of the plastic container and sunk his chopsticks into the food anyway.

Alex rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.”

He took a moment to swallow a large bite and thanked her.

“So last class you were saying that a client of yours in San Francisco transferred his delusions of shadow people onto his son and wife, that that was an example of shared psychosis and how it can start to spread.” Strand nodded, shoveling in noodles at such a speed that Alex wondered if he ever actually remembered to eat. “But it seems like you never conferred with the police? What if something _was_ there?”

Strand set down his chopsticks. “These things were described to me as thin, impossibly tall figures that disappeared when lights were turned on. Demons, the wife claimed. The logical conclusion is these are some sort of hallucination or externalization of interior paranoia.”

Alex frowned in dissatisfaction; Strand mirrored her expression.

“I’m not saying it was a demon. I’m just saying what if maybe it was a person, someone stalking the family? Don’t you think it’s a little presumptive of you to not pursue that?”

Strand breathed out in the way that Alex was now able to identify as a sort of chuckle, a Strandish communication of mild amusement.

“You’re always asking good questions, Alex. It’s what the field of journalism has lacked, why I agreed to teach this course in the first place.”

The compliment felt out of place, and it hung awkwardly in the air of the small office as the silence stretched between Strand and Alex. Alex shifted uncomfortably in her seat, swirling her noodles around with her chopsticks.

Bastard always had a way to derail her line of questioning and change the subject so effectively. It was low of him to resort to compliments, just to catch her off guard.

“Thanks,” she murmured, just to drown out the sound of Strand slurping up more noodles. Watching his voracious eating, sitting in silence and reeling from his indirect approval of her journalistic ability, Alex started to feel uncomfortably close to considering Dr. Strand a real person, with skills and flaws and beliefs and a personal life all his own.

She sealed the lid onto her pad thai and tucked it into her bag.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Strand, I have something I have to get to after this,” she explained, hoisting her bookbag onto her back.

He lowered his chopsticks. His glance met hers, his pretty blue eyes communicating vague disappointment.

“Thank you. For dinner.”

She nodded brusquely and hurried out the door.

###

Alex didn’t turn up to Dr. Strand’s office hours the next week, and she rushed out of class as soon as it ended. Seeing Strand inspired some sort of nervous feeling that she interpreted as dread to face off with him again and _lose_.

So when he called her out after the following Monday’s class—the last week of the course—she approached with shamefaced apprehension.

He slouched against the desk at the front, and he didn’t take up his full imposing height. Lazy of him.

“Miss Reagan,” he said, and she noticed his hesitation, as if he were testing the waters. “I didn’t see you at last week’s office hours. Should I expect you tomorrow, to continue our conversation on the San Francisco case study?”

“I’m not sure,” Alex answered, and left the classroom.

She spent the next afternoon and early evening hunched over in the library, working on revising her final paper for the class. Or that’s what she was supposed to be doing, but she couldn’t concentrate, not really.

At 7:45 she packed her school things and started on autopilot through the U. Washington campus. She found herself lingering in the hallway outside the visiting professor’s office. The door stood ajar; she caught a glimpse of Dr. Strand typing away on his laptop, brow furrowed and lacking any student company.

She left him to his devices and headed home.

###

Alex rolled over in her bed and caught the blinking red of her alarm clock. Noon? She’d turned in her final paper literally in the eleventh hour last night—not normally one to procrastinate, she’d found defending her thesis statement rather difficult to focus on.

She tugged her phone off the charger cord and opened up her inbox. Some emails from work, but she’d taken the day off to relax after expending all her energy on her final paper. But there, wedged between a message from her boss and a forwarded meme from Nic, sat a subject line made her heart drop.

 _Please meet at earliest convenience to discuss final paper_ , from the lovely Dr. Strand.

Groaning, she opened up the email.

_Alex,_

_I have some comments on your paper that I would like to discuss. I will be in my office the usual hours._

_-RS_

The fucker was still professor-ing her, and the goddamn class had finished. She could punch somebody in the mouth right now.

###

She showed up at 10 minutes to 8pm, hoping to cut Strand’s stupid discussion short. She’d claim hunger. Or having an actual life. Anything to get out of this.

“Ah, Alex,” Strand said as she entered his office. He was packing his things neatly into his messenger bag, his jacket sleeves cuffed. Stupid man was obsessed with organizing his stupid bag yet again.

“Hi, Dr. Strand. I’m sorry I’m so late, and I haven’t had dinner yet, so maybe you could just email me?”

Strand slung the strap of the messenger bag over his shoulder, the epitome of professor chic.

“I could eat, actually,” he responded, holding the door open for Alex. She frowned and walked out in front of him. He shut off the lights and closed the door, locking it for good. “That Thai restaurant is just a few blocks down the street.”

The corners of his lips drew up as he stared down at her. He seemed… off, somehow.

Strand started walking through the hall, and when she didn’t follow, he motioned impatiently for her to come along. Feeling awkward, and internally screaming at herself for obliging him, she followed.

“Your paper’s argument was very interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever had a student that posited something so… unique.”

They reached the front of the building, and he once again held the door for her.

Maybe it was just something old white guys did.

They continued strolling through the campus, the overhead lights illuminating their path, and Alex listened as Strand discussed the finer points of her paper’s argument.

“Wait, Dr. Strand,” she interrupted as he launched into a deeper discussion of the back half of her paper.

He stopped walking and caught her eyes. God, he was so tall.

“Richard,” he told her. “I’m no longer your professor.” His eyes were weirdly intense.

“Oh. Okay, um, Richard.” The texture of the name felt foreign on her tongue and lips. Strand edged towards her, just half a step.

What the hell?

“Alex,” his voice was small, quiet, timid, everything she’d never associated with him. “Can I kiss you?”

She stared blankly, her brain trying to process Strand’s inquiry. It slowly clunked into place.

Oh. Oh. _Oh. OH._

Ho _ly_ shit.

Strand broke into faint laughter, snapping the tension of the moment, and Alex realized she must’ve vocalized her internal monologue.

Why the hell not?

Alex nodded, very slightly, feeling like a bumbling teenager again. Strand hunched down to meet her, more of a giant than a human, really, and kissed her.

She found it wasn’t unpleasant.

She pushed him back lightly with the base of her palms.

“Wait, wait,” she said in between heavy breaths and racing thoughts trying to process the fact that she’d just kissed her _goddamn professor_.

“I’m sorry, I—” Strand stuttered.

Alex cut him off. “Did I pass?”

Strand paused, huffed out the ghost of a chuckle.

“With flying colors.”


End file.
